No one, Doug thought with amused satisfaction, would suspect him of his other life: that of the single freelance illustrator with an apartment in the blessed anonymity of London Terrace on West Twenty-third Street, plus a hideaway in Pawling and a new Volvo station wagon.

Doug took a final look in the long mirror, adjusted his pocket handkerchief, and with a glance to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything, walked to the door. The bedroom always irritated him. Antique French provincial furniture, damn place done by an upscale interior designer, and Susan still managed to make it look like the inside of Fibber McGee’s closet. Clothes piled on the chaise, silver toilet articles haphazardly strewn over the top of the dresser. Kindergarten drawings taped on the wall. Let me out, Doug thought. The kitchen was the scene of the usual mayhem. Thirteen-year-old Donny and twelve-year-old Beth jamming food in their mouths. Susan warning that the school bus was down the block. The baby waddling around with a wet diaper and grubby hands. Trish saying she didn’t want to go to kindergarten this afternoon, she wanted to stay home and watch “All My Children” with Mommy. Susan was wearing an old flannel robe over her nightgown. She had been a very pretty girl when they were married. A pretty girl who’d let herself go. She smiled at Doug and poured him coffee. “Won’t you have pancakes or something?” “No.” Would she ever stop asking him to stuff his face every morning? Doug jumped back as the baby tried to embrace his leg. “Damn it, Susan, if you can’t keep him clean, at least don’t let him near me. I can’t go to the office looking grubby.”

“Bus!” Beth yelled. “Bye, Mom. Bye, Dad.”

Donny grabbed his books. “Can you come to my basketball game tonight, Dad?” “Won’t be home till late, son. An important meeting. Next time for sure, I promise.”